Friends With Benefits
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Late Season 2ish, House and Cuddy find themselves unexpectedly leaning on each other.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey gang: Long time no see!** **Que pasa?**

**Sorrrrrrrry about the long hiatus. I was actually trying to cut back on my fic output, for a variety of reasons (mostly because it's an unhealthy addiction and I should probably be in a 12-step program, LOL), but this break was particularly long because I experienced a personal loss and wasn't really up for writing. **  
**Anyway, I'm back! **

**Many of you will recognize the inspiration for this fic right away. When I wrote the scene where Wilson bailed Cuddy out of jail in Can't Help it, I thought, "Doh! This would've been **_**such**_** a great House/Cuddy moment." So I went with it.**

**It was supposed to be a one-shot but it got too long. Not sure when I'll be able to finish the rest (hopefully this weekend), but I thought I'd post what I have, which is pretty substantial. Hope you enjoy! **

**And to those who propped me up and made me feel the love during this rough time (you know who you are), I can't thank you all enough. xoxo, atd**

Cuddy was gazing into the jewelry case at Harlowe's department store, trying to decide if she really needed another Chan Luu bracelet, when she heard her name being called.

She turned.

It was Bev Murphy, a friend from yoga. She was accompanied by her somewhat hyperactive 4 year old son, Zach.

The two women embraced and began chatting breezily about the rainy weather they'd been having, the new tapas restaurant in town, and then—in lower voices—about a woman in yoga who had recently gained an alarming amount of weight.

After a while, little Zach. who had began tugging on his mother's pant leg, began yelling with increasing volume and intensity: "Mom! Mom! _Moooooooom!_" as Bev did her level best to ignore him.

(It was moments like this when Cuddy actually wondered if it was for the best that she had recently failed to conceive a child.)

Another hug—followed by a vague promise to "do lunch"—and Bev yanked her little boy toward the handbag department, hissing in his ear, "What did mommy tell you about letting her talk to her friends?"

Cuddy smiled a bit—Zach was cute despite the permanent sugar high—and went back to the bracelet, ultimately deciding against it.

She looked at her watch. About 7:30. She would stop by the gourmet market on the way home, pick up a quick dinner, and maybe even take a hot bubble bath tonight. A rare night of indulgence.

She had just made it to the exit, when an alarm sounded.

She looked around, wondering which sap had been caught with an accidental security tag still on their purchase, and then realized she was the only one in the doorway.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. She hadn't even bought anything. These stores really needed to get their sensors together.

She stopped, expecting to be waved ahead with a sheepish "no worries, it happens all the time" smile by some helpful store clerk. Instead, a security guard approached her.

"Ma'am, I need you to follow me," he said.

"What? Why?" Cuddy said, annoyed. "I didn't take anything. Your sensor must be broken."

"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding," the guard said apologetically. "But you still need to follow me."

Cuddy looked around, half-angry, half-embarrassed.

Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she followed the guard into his cramped office.

"I'm sorry, but I need to look in your bag," he said.

"This is ridiculous," she said. She considered muttering something about constitutional rights, but figured it was just best to get things over with.

She opened the bag with a "told you so!" look on her face.

Much to her shock, a Chan Luu bracelet was in her purse.

Her mouth dropped open.

"I didn't! . . .I never! . . ." she sputtered.

"Care to explain how this bracelet got in your bag, ma'am?" His tone had changed. From slightly apologetic, to accusatory.

"I literally have no idea!" she said.

"Well, it didn't just walk in there itself, did it?" he said.

"No. . .it must've fallen in," she said. "I guess I accidentally hit it with my elbow or something." But even as she said it, the words seemed implausible. Then it dawned on her. "It was Zach!" she said. "My friend's son. He's four. He was fidgeting around. He must've dropped the bracelet in my bag."

"Your son, ma'am?"

"No, not _my_ son. I just said: My friend's son."

The guard looked around the office theatrically.

"I don't see any little boys. I just see a $200 bracelet in your purse."

"Why would I steal a bracelet? I obviously have the money. . ."

"People steal for all sorts of reasons, ma'am. Rarely it's because of need."

"This is absurd. Look at me. Do I look like a criminal to you?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to call the police, Miss—what did you say your name was?"

"It's Cuddy. _Doctor_ Lisa Cuddy."

"Dr. Cuddy, we're going to be here for a while. You probably want to take a seat."

#######

She was arrested, booked, and granted one phone call, just like in the movies.

And for a second, she froze.

She couldn't call the hospital lawyer, because she wanted to keep this as private as possible.

Julia would get all judgmental, as she did.

Wilson would flit about in a panic, with no idea how to handle things.

She was simply be too mortified to call any of her friends or colleagues

There was really only one person to call, much to her horror.

So she dialed.

"I don't want any," House said into the phone.

"House, it's Cuddy. I need your help."

"Finally!" he joked. "Yes, you can have some of my sperm. And . . .what number are you calling from? Are you actually _at_ the sperm bank? Because I'm not sure I'm in the mood. . .Unless you want to manually service. . ."

"House, I'm at the Trenton Police Department."

"Your lack of adequate sperm donations hardly constitutes a police emergency, Cuddy. Or are you looking for candidates among the cops? Firefighters I hear also make excellent. . ."

"House—focus! I'm at the police department because I've been arrested! I need you to post my bail."

There was a pause, and then a loud laugh.

"You're joking, right? What did you do? _Nag_ somebody to death?"

"House. Why on earth would I joke about something like this? They claim I shoplifted. It's all a big mistake. I need you to come get me."

He suddenly realized she was serious: "Why'd you call me? I mean, why not Wilson? Or your sister?"

"I thought. . .maybe you had some experience with this sort of thing."

He sighed.

"I do," he said, gently. "You're going to have to spend the night in a holding cell, okay? Don't talk to anybody unless they talk to you first. Don't complain about anything or call attention to yourself in any way. Just stay calm and try to get some sleep. I'll be there first thing in the morning."

The tenderness in his voice almost made her lose it for a second. When House got serious, you knew things were really bad.

"Thanks House," she said, choking back a tear.

"You're re going to be okay, Cuddy," he said. And hung up.

####

"Lisa Cuddy," they called. "You've posted bail."

Despite House's suggestion, she had gotten little sleep. She had sat awake—twitchy and on edge—all night. Every time she managed to nod off, she woke with a start. She felt like one of those mafia guys who slept with a gun on his lap, knowing there was a hit out on him.

She was tired, dirty, hungry, and badly needed to pee.

House was waiting in the reception area.

When he saw her, he stifled a smile.

"Morning sunshine," he said.

"Don't laugh at me, House," she said, pointing. "It's not funny."

"I know it's not. Well, okay, maybe a little."

"Shut up," she said. "Let's just leave."

He jerked his head toward the desk clerk.

"You have to sign for your stuff," he said. "Unless you prefer to leave your wallet and shoes with the cops. The world's first reverse shoplifting."

She signed for her stuff and followed House to his car.

"You want to tell me what happened?" he said, opening the door for her.

"I was framed," she said. "By a sticky-fingered four year old."

He laughed.

"Never wise to make enemies out of criminal mastermind toddlers," he said.

She shrugged, put on her seatbelt.

He sniffed the air.

"You have a lovely bouquet this morning— a sort of Eau de Felon."

"Shut up," she moped, curling herself more deeply into the car seat.

He gave a small smile.

"You'll be home and in your own bed—and shower—in no time," he said, side-eyeing her, amused.

She suddenly bolted up, straight.

"No!" she said. "I can't go home."  
"Cuddy, I know you put the 'aholic' in work-aholic, but you really need to go home and at least change and shower. Even by my somewhat suspect grooming standards. . ."

"No, I mean, I can't go to my house because my neighbor, Mrs. Morgenstern will see me."

"So what? Do you owe her money?"

"No," Cuddy said, closing her eyes. "She's like a one-woman neighborhood patrol. Nothing gets past her watchful eyes."

"Big deal. Let her think you have a wild social life."

"There's 'wild social life' and then there's looking like a homeless crackhead," Cuddy said, inspecting herself in the windshield mirror glumly.

"Good point." House chuckled.

"Did I mention that she's best friends with my mother?"

"Ha, your mom probably befriended her for her excellent Cuddy-spying skills."

"That's probably true," Cuddy sighed.

"So what's the plan then? We could sneak you through the back door."

"Mrs. Morgenstern has eyes in the back of her head. She's like the KGB. There no way to get in my house without being seen. Trust me on this."

"What then?"

"We could go back to your place."

He almost slammed on the brakes in shock.

"_My_ place?"

"Why not? You have a shower, right? Towels? A bed?"

Somehow, the thought of Cuddy in his shower and on his bed made him feel funny.

"I don't have a change of clothes for you. Those rumors about me being a crossdresser are false"

"I have a change of clothes at the office. I'll just take a nap, take a shower, and wear what I'm wearing until I get to work."

She looked down at her rumpled, soiled clothing in dismay.

"Maybe I could at least borrow an iron?"

House snorted loudly.

"Of course," she said. "How stupid me. You don't own an iron. Maybe you _should_ just take me straight to the office."

"No," House said firmly. "Mi casa es su casa. Just let me clear out the hookers and hypodermic needles first." He eyed her, to see if she smiled at his joke. She didn't.

He drove quickly toward his apartment.

#######

She had been to his place before, but never for any extended period of time.

Considering how sloppy he always looked, his apartment was surprisingly clean.

The bathroom was scrubbed, with stainless steel hardware so polished, you could see your face in it. He handed her a towel. It was white and fluffy.

"Shower's there," he said, pointing. "I don't have any of those girly potions you like. But I have, uh, soap."

"Good," she said.

He nodded at her. Then stood there, expectantly, his hands jammed in his pockets.

"I think I've got it from here, House," she said, with a tiny smile.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, right," he said. "But I'm an excellent back washer, in case you need any assistance."

"Good to know," she said. "But I'm good."

He reluctantly backed away.

"I'll be right outside that door, in case you change your mind," he said, closing the door behind him.

Cuddy waited until she was sure he was gone and kicked off her pumps. Then she took off her grubby business suit, leaving it in a heap on the floor.

She turned on the water to near scalding. It immediately had a calming effect. She smiled at House's choice of grooming supplies: A sort of old-fashioned looking bottle of liquid that apparently worked as both soap and shampoo. Conditioner was, needless to say, too much to ask for. She squirted some of the soap in her hands. It smelled slightly of mint.

She couldn't help feeling a little . . . funny about being naked, rubbing soap all over her body, with House just a few feet away, right outside the door. It was a heady combination of being both worried that he would barge in on her and feeling slightly bummed that he didn't.

She tried to focus on anything else besides House stepping onto the bath mat, taking off his jeans and t-shirt, getting into the shower, and putting his strong arms around her.

Well, there was always the disgusting court case that loomed before her. According to the guard at Harlowe's, she'd probably get off with a fine, maybe some community service.

"No one actually spends more than one night in jail for a first offense of shoplifting," he said.

"Except I _didn't_ shoplift!" Cuddy countered.

"Oh yeah," he said skeptically. "That."

But even that troubling thought was blocked out by a sudden feeling of exhaustion that overcame her. It had been the longest night of her life. She could barely stand in the shower. She turned off the water, wrapped herself tightly in a towel, and stepped onto the bath mat.

She looked at her dirty pile of clothing. She felt way too clean and refreshed to even think about putting them back on. She hoped against hope that House had a bathrobe on a hook. No such luck.

So, making sure the towel was secure, she stepped out of the bathroom.

House was sitting on his couch. When he saw her, his mouth dropped open for a second. Then he recovered.

"Remind me to buy smaller towels," he said, inspecting her up and down.

"Adorable, House," she said.

He smiled.

"Feel better?"

"Feel exhausted. Can I maybe borrow a tee-shirt and a pair of sweats to take a nap in?"

"Just for the record, I have zero problem—socially or politically—with you sleeping in the nude," he said.

"_House_."

He smiled again.

"Coming right up," he said.

He limped into the bedroom, came back with a pair of sweatpants and one of his old graphic tees.

She went into the bathroom and changed. The sweats were swimming on her.

"C'mere," he said.

He pulled her toward him, his hands firm around her hips. She gasped for a moment. Then he did some sort of move where he folded over the waistband and tied a fancy knot with the drawstring to make the pants tighter.

"Better?" he said.

"Better," she admitted.

"I'll be here when you wake up," he said.

"No," she said. "It's 11 am. You have a case. You should go to the hospital."

It was true. His pager had sounded at least 5 times in the last hour.

"How will you get to the hospital?"

"I'll call a cab."

"You sure?"

"Positive. Go to work. I'll see you in a few hours."

He hesitated.

"Okay," he said.

"And House?"

"Yeah Cuddy."

"Thanks."

He nodded at her, and left.

She walked into the bedroom, set her cell phone alarm to wake her up in two hours and fell asleep literally the minute her head hit the pillow.

She was so exhausted, it didn't quite process how strange it was to be sleeping in his bed, a tasteful shade of taupe, with pleasingly scratchy gray pillows made of a thick cotton, that smelled faintly of his musk.

She woke up, disoriented at first, then remembered where she was. What a surreal night! She wandered into the kitchen.

House had left a set of keys with a note for her on the table:

Was in the mood to ride my bike.

You can drive my car to work.

But don't steal it.

-House

She looked out the window. It was raining.

#######

Here was the thing about House: He could be so tender, so considerate one minute—to the point where Cuddy found herself asking, "Why on earth _aren't_ I in a relationship with him?"— and back to his usual asshole ways the next.

Over the course of the next few days, he took every opportunity to mock and bait her.

At a differential, he refused to hand her a file until she washed her hands.

"She has sticky fingers," he explained to his team.

At lunch with her and Wilson, he said that he was testing new ring tones on his phone.

"Do you like this one?" he said—playing "Back on the Chain Gang"—"or this one?"—"Jailhouse Rock."

"I've always loved the Pretenders," Wilson said, munching on his sandwich.

Another lunch, just the two of them this time, he insisted on calling her "Winona"—as in famed celebrity shoplifter Winona Ryder—the whole time.

Then, a few days after House sprung her from jail, she was sitting in her office, when a cop, in full uniform barged in.

"Dr. Cuddy?" the cop said.

She looked up, shocked—and more than slightly alarmed.

"I've got a warrant here . . ."

"A _warrant_?"

"Yes . . . for your heart."

And he proceeded to turn on a small radio in his back pocket—a thumping dance beat—and start to disrobe.

Her mouth dropped open.

"Are you out of your mind?" she said.

"I'm just working my beat, ma'am," he said, unbuttoning his shirt and swiveling his hips.

"Stop!" she yelled.

"In the name of love?" he asked, in that smarmy stripper sort of way.

"No. Just stop!"

"Or I'll shoot?" he said, unbuckling his belt, with a wink.

"No! Literally, _stop_."

Mid hip-gyration, he froze.

"Oh," he said, getting it.

He turned off the music and began pulling up his pants.

"You do realize that this is a place of business, don't you?" Cuddy said, glaring at him.

"Your assistant said _you_ were the one who hired me," he sputtered.

"Me?"

"Yeah, he said you had a thing for cops and had some sort of fantasy about a stripper cop in your office."

"My assistant is a woman," Cuddy said. House was _so_ dead.

"I'm still getting paid, right?" the stripper said, as he buttoned his shirt. "The contract stipulates I get paid whether I complete the routine or not."

Cuddy stared at him. Finally, she rolled her eyes, pulled out her checkbook: "How much do I owe you?"

#######

A few weeks later, Cuddy wandered into the DDx room. House's team was sitting around the table, looking bored. Chase was flipping through a magazine. Cameron was twirling her hair. Foreman actually yawned.

When they noticed her, they all straightened up and tried to look busy.

"Where's House?" she said.

"He lost a patient two days ago," Cameron said.

"I know he did," Cuddy said. "That's why I'm here. We have some paperwork to go over."

"House always calls in 'sick' the day after a patient dies," Chase said. He put the word "sick" in air quotes.

"By sick, he means he goes on a bender," Foreman explained.

"I'm well aware of that," Cuddy said. "That was yesterday. What I want to know is why isn't he here _today_?"

"I guess he took this death particularly hard," Cameron said.

Cuddy frowned.

"Why?"

"He's actually lot more sensitive than you think," Cameron said.

Everyone shot her a look.

"Maybe he. . .actually connected with this patient," she stammered.

"This is House we're talking about," Foreman said. "He doesn't _do_ connection."

"Whatever the case, it's probably for the best that he stays away," Chase said nervously. "For all parties involved."

"House is enough of a jerk when he's happy," Foreman agreed. "When he's depressed, he's deadly."

Cuddy folded her arms.

"Okay," she said. "But if he's not back by tomorrow, we have a serious problem."

But the next day, House still hadn't come to work.

"This is unusual," Chase admitted. "He's never gone more than a day before."

"Cameron, go get him," Cuddy said.

"_Me_?" Cameron said. She was slightly afraid of going to House's place when he was in a bad way, but equally flattered that Cuddy had assigned her this important task. Even Cuddy could see that she and House had a special relationship.

"Yes," Cuddy said. "He's less likely to deck you."

Both Chase and Foreman shrugged in agreement.

"What am I supposed to say to him?"

"Tell him that Cuddy sent you and it's time for him to get off his self-pitying ass and come back to work."

Cameron left for her important mission, but not before stopping in the ladies room to check her makeup and brush her hair.

Later that day, Cuddy swung back by the DDx room. Still no House.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"He, uh, wouldn't leave his apartment," Cameron said. Then she added: "Or his room."

"What do you mean he wouldn't leave his room?'

"He told me to go away."  
"Did you convey my message?"

"More or less," Cameron muttered.

"What was the less part?"

"I may not have technically used the phrase 'self-pitying ass.''"

Cuddy shook her head.

"Did his royal highness say when he planned on gracing us with his presence?"

"He said tomorrow."

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she said.

She returned the next day. Still no House.

"Now where is he?" she demanded.

"He called in sick again," Cameron said.

"You've got to be joking," Cuddy said.

And she stormed out.

She marched straight to Wilson's office.

"I need you to go get him," she said.

"Who?"

"You know who," she said.

"House?"

"No, Jimmy Hoffa. Of course, House."

"He's grieving."

"His grandmother didn't die Wilson. His patient did."

"And House didn't solve the case. You know how much that throws off his equilibrium."

"One day of moping maybe I could understand. We're on our fourth day."

"It _is_ a bit indulgent, even by his standards," Wilson admitted.

"Go get him," Cuddy said.

"_Me_?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that. Yes, you. His best friend. Tell him to come back to work or he's on probation."

"Isn't that a little. . .extreme?"

"He's a doctor. He can't go all Nic Cage in _Leaving Las Vegas_ on me every time he loses a patient. It's not sustainable."

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"_BRING HIM BACK_, Wilson."

"Okay," Wilson peeped, slightly afraid of her.

But two hours later, he returned, looking chagrined—and sans House.

"Where is he?" Cuddy said, annoyed.

"He wouldn't let me in."  
"He what?"

"He wouldn't even open the door for me."

"Don't you have a spare key? I'm certain that at least once you've had to let him in when some bartender took away his keys."

Wilson considered lying. Then decided against it.

"I have his key. I just didn't think to bring it _with_ me," he said.

Cuddy looked at him, frustrated.

Finally, she held out her hand.

"Gimme," she said.

"Give you what?"

"His key. I'm going in."

"Are you sure that's prudent?"

"We're way past prudent at this point. Gimme."

Wilson cocked his head a bit, sighed and reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out a key and tossed it to her.

She caught it.

"If you want something done right, do it yourself," she muttered, on her way out the door.

######

She knocked loudly.

"No one's home!" House yelled.

"House, it's me. Cuddy."

A pause.

"Uh oh. . . I'm in trouble," he said.

"You will be, if you don't open this door. Let me in."

Another pause.

"I'm sick. Go away. I promise I'll be back tomorrow."

"Actually, you'll be back today. I'm done indulging you, House."

"Leave me alone!"

She sighed, fished in her purse for the key and opened the door.

She places the package she was carrying on the dining room table and then, without hesitating, she entered his bedroom.

House was lying in bed, wearing a somewhat stained white tee-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair unruly, his beard three-days overgrown. There were two empty bottle of whiskey on the bed. The room was stale and smelled of alcohol.

When he saw her, he actually jumped.

"Good God woman!" he said. "I could've been naked."

"A chance I was willing to take."

"Actually, we could replay this scene, with _you_ naked," he said musingly. "It'll sell better to the male 18 to 35 demographic."

Cuddy ignored him, opened a window.

"It smells like a distillery in here," she said.

"How'd you even get in? Adding breaking and entering to your growing list of criminal skills?"

"Wilson gave me a key," she said.

House rolled his eyes.

"He's such a Judas."

"House, I need you to get up, get dressed, and get over yourself."

"I'm sick!" he said. "Can't a guy be sick?"

"If you're sick, why are you rolling around in bed with two bottles of Jack Daniels?"

"Feed a cold, drown a fever?" he said.

She pulled the covers off him, like she was the mother of a teenage boy, trying to rouse him for school.

"Hey!" House said, yanking them back.

Cuddy pursed her lips.

"You've got two hours to get your ass out of bed and get to the hospital or I'm putting you on formal probation."

He glared at her,

"You wouldn't."

"Just watch me."

Now he took the covers and put them over his head.

"Go away," he said. His voice was muffled.

She looked at him, sighed. Then she made her way to the kitchen. It was a mess. There were dirty dishes in the sink and the countertops were sticky.

She started to clean up. Then she peered into the fridge, for some inspiration. She turned on the stove.

A few minutes later, House bellowed: "Why are you still here?"

"I'm making you lunch. You need to eat," Cuddy said.

"Why?"

"Maybe you missed that day in medical school, but human beings need food to survive."

"I mean, why are you making it for me?"

"Because I'm worried about you, House."

"Why?"

"Because I care about you," she said.

"You didn't seem to care about me 15 minutes ago, when you threatened to fire me."

"That was Cuddy your boss. This is Cuddy your friend."

"Since when are we friends?" he said, skeptically.

"Since when _aren't _we friends?" she countered.

She had managed to make some grilled cheese and tomato soup. Comfort food. She found a tray, brought it into the bedroom.

"Sit up," she said.

He sat up, obediently. She placed the tray on his lap.

"Eat," she said.

He looked at her.

"Thanks," he said, somewhat mopily.

"You'd do the same for me," she said.

"No, I wouldn't," he said.

"You already did," Cuddy said. "The night I was arrested? Face it, House. We're stuck with each other."

The corner of his mouth flinched into a tiny smile. He took a spoonful of soup.

Cuddy sat at the edge of the bed.

"Why do you let yourself get like this?" she said, cautiously.

"I hate being wrong."

"You weren't wrong," she said. "You just ran out of time. You would've figured out what was wrong with your patient eventually."

"I'm sure that's a great comfort to his grieving widow," House said.

"You don't care about his grieving widow. You care about solving the puzzle."

"And I didn't."

"Even if you had, he would've died. The autopsy showed. . ."

"Subacute sclerosing panencephalitis," House said. "Brought on by a childhood bout with the measles."

Cuddy eyed him.

"Exactly," she said. "So you _did_ solve it."

House shrugged.

"I used his _death_ as a huge clue," House said.

"The patients who see you are always already dying," Cuddy said. "It's amazing how many you save. Super-human even."

"I'm sure that's also a great comfort to his grieving widow."

"Why do you keep mentioning his widow?"

House blinked, hesitated.

"She came into my office and _thanked me_. Her husband had just died. I'd barely spent a minute with a guy and when I did see him, I'm pretty sure I was rude to him. And she _thanked me_."

So _that_ was why he was so upset. House actually felt guilty.

She put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, House," she said.

"It's no big deal," he said. (Which was a dumb thing to say, considering the booze, the depression, and the fact that he hadn't left his room in three days, but she let it slide.)

"Just focus on the all the people whose lives you've saved who hate you anyway!" she teased. "That's got to give you some comfort."

He gave a tiny sad laugh.

"It does," he said.

Cuddy looked at her watch.

"Shit! I have to go back to the office," she said. "Can I count on you to finish eating this and come to work?'

House nodded slowly.

"Yeah," he said.

"Good," Cuddy said. "Also. . . I left you a present on the dining room table. Actually, more of a suggestion than a present."

She had an urge to kiss him on the forehead, but decided that was too intimate a gesture even with this newly acknowledged closeness between them. Instead, she brushed a stray piece of hair off his forehead.

"You're going to be okay, House," she said.

_To be continued. . ._


	2. Chapter 2

**Ugh. I kind of screwed up the rhythm of this fic. I should have posted the first giant chunk as two separate chapters, thus creating three equal-sized parts. Instead, I dropped the gigundo chapter 1, creating the expectation that chapter 2 would have similar, uh, girth. Instead, I give you this. Check those high expectations, fic fans, and you should at least be somewhat amused.**

House collected the empty bottles that were strewn across his bed.

He felt strangely nourished by the sandwich and soup, although neither had been particularly good. (Cuddy had burnt the toast and the soup wasn't hot enough . . .but, still, she had _cooked. _For him.)

And he had to admit, he was curious about the present she had alluded to. He put on his bathrobe and padded into the dining room.

He chuckled when he saw what it was: An iron, unwrapped, with a note: "Baby steps.-C"

He shook his head and headed for the shower.

####

A few hours later, Cuddy wandered into the DDx room to see if House had actually shown up. He wasn't there.

"Looks like you had no more luck with him than the rest of us," said Cameron, feeling vindicated.

"Luck with who?" House said.

He was standing in the doorway to the office, more or less shaved and groomed, looking sober and refreshed.

"Welcome back, House," Foreman said.

House gave Cuddy the tiniest nod and sat down at the table with his team.

"Give me an update on the case," he said. "And by update, I mean, tell me all your ridiculous theories. I could use the laugh."

Then he turned to Cameron, who was still staring at him.

"What?" he said, sharply.

"You look. . .different," she said.

He furrowed his brow.

"Different how? Four days older perhaps?"

She squinted at him.

"No, I can't quite put my finger on it. . .It's. . ."

She kept staring at him quizzically.

"Your shirt is ironed!" she said, suddenly figuring it out.

House looked down at the table.

"It's, uh, a new shirt," he lied, as Cuddy, suppressing a smile, headed back to her office.

#####

Cuddy's phone rang three nights later, at about 10 o clock.

She looked at the caller ID.

"What do you want House?"

"Depends," House said. He sounded ever so slightly drunk. "Am I speaking to friend Cuddy or boss Cuddy?"

"What have you done now?"

"Nothing," he said. "I just thought that maybe friend Cuddy would like to join me at Sullivan's for a drink. Boss Cuddy isn't invited."

Cuddy smiled.

"Friend Cuddy would. But she's wearing her pajamas. It's after 10, House."

"Boss Cuddy would go to sleep at 10. Friend Cuddy would realize that she's 37, not 67 and throw on some duds and join me for a drink."

Cuddy hesitated. A part of her really wanted to join him for a drink. Another part thought it was a singularly terrible idea.

"The suspense is killing me, Cuddy!" House said.

She looked over at the cup of tea with lemon on her nightstand that she had been drinking. It was resting on a quilted doily.

"I'll be there in 20 minutes," she said.

#####

He had saved a seat for her at the bar.

He smiled when he saw her: Her hair was slightly messy, and the only makeup she wore was a bit of hastily applied dark red lipstick.

She had never looked better to him.

"The bartender keeps no more than $100 in the drawer at any time," he said, when she sat down. "Just thought you'd want to know that."

"Very funny, House," she said.

"So what's your next heist? Jewelry store? Bank? Or are you thinking more of a white-color crime? Embezzlement?"

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?" she said.

"Not a chance," he said, with a grin. "By the way, whatever happened with your court case?"

"They let me go on a technicality," she said. "The arresting cop never showed."

"Do you realize how much restraint I am exercising in not making a 'you got off' joke?"

"Your maturity is truly impressive," she said.

"Thank you," he said, with a little bow.

The bartender, came over, raised his eyebrows at House, and then turned to Cuddy.

"Hi," he said leadingly.

"Hi," she said back.

"I'm Harry."

"I'm Lisa."

"Nice to meet you, Lisa. So what'll it be?"

Cuddy started to order, but House interrupted her:

"Belvedere martini, not too dry, two olives," he said.

Cuddy side-eyed him. Did he obsessively take note of _everyone's_ favorite drink, or just hers?

"Good guess," she teased.

He had been showing off, but now he realized that he had perhaps revealed too much of his own personal obsession.

"Knowledge is power," he said idly.

She got her drink and they clinked glasses.

"To friendship," House said, cautiously.

"To friendship," Cuddy agreed.

There was a tiny pause as they both contemplated this unfamiliar new status between them.

"I'm still not totally sure why you called me instead of Wilson that night," he said finally.

"Instinct," she said.

"So you call Wilson when you want a sperm donation and me when you want to get bailed out of jail?" he said.

"Something like that," she chuckled.

"Should I be hurt?"

"You should be flattered," she said. "Wilson is way too normal to be of any use in a moment like that."

House managed to suppress a smile.

"So exactly how many times _have_ you been arrested?" Cuddy asked him.

He shrugged.

"What does that mean?"

"It means. . .I've lost count."

"You've _lost count_ of how many times you've been arrested?"

"Insubordination to a police officer," House said. "It's a thing."

She shook her head.

"You're too much," she said. "When will you learn to keep your giant mouth shut?"

"And when will you learn not to steal bracelets from department stores?"

"I didn't!"

"Gotcha," he said, with a little grin.

Then he looked thoughtfully at his glass. His voice suddenly grew serious.

"Funny story: The first time I ever got arrested, it was because my old man turned me in to the cops."

Talking to House was a bit like driving on a windy country road late at night. You had to watch out for sudden curves.

"Your. . .father?"

"He claimed I stole his truck," House said, taking a big swig of his drink. "It was a '66 Chevy. Sky blue. I loved that old thing. Used to tinker with it all the time in the garage. Mom let me drive it when Dad was overseas. It was kind of our little secret, you know?"

He smiled a bit at the memory.

"Then, one night, I took it to a party . . . we had just won the lacrosse regionals. I had scored the winning goal. It was a perfect night. . . Sylvie DeAngelo was going to have sex with me. . ." He glanced at Cuddy, to see if that was an overshare. She seemed unfazed. "And Pop got home a day early from Okinawa—and when he saw that the truck wasn't parked in the garage, he blew a gasket, so to speak. Called the cops on me. Not as a bluff. Not to teach me a lesson. But to actually have me spend the night in jail."

"Oh House, I'm so sorry," she said.

She wasn't sure why he had chosen to share this story with her now. It seemed that suddenly they were stepping into all kinds of uncharted territory.

She touched his arm, but he stiffened a bit.

"It was no big deal," he said, looking away.

Aaaaand. . .another curve in the road.

She decided to lighten the mood.

"I see the whole ironing thing didn't take," she said, inspecting his wrinkled pink shirt.

"Never really understood the point of ironing," he admitted. "The clothing is just going to get rumpled again anyway."

"Ahh, the old: 'Why make the bed when you're just going to sleep in it' excuse," Cuddy said.

"Yeah. . .mom never bought that line either," he said, grinning.

He noticed that Cuddy had an empty glass.

"Another one?" he said.

She sighed.

"Okay, ONE more. It's a school night. But first I gotta pee."

"Bathroom's that way," he said, jerking his thumb to the right.

"I have been here before, you know," she said, slightly defensive.

"Sorry. My bad."

She got up, peered at the unfamiliar hallways, hesitated.

"That one?" she confirmed, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah," he said, smiling at her.

And he watched her walk away, a stupid grin playing at his lips.

Harry walked over to him.

"You dog," he said.

"What?" House said innocently.

"You've been coming to this bar for—what?— five years and I've never seen you so much as talk to a woman."

"I'm picky," House said.

Harry shook his head.

"Well, your patience paid off, my friend. She's smoking hot. How long have you two been dating?"

"She's not my girlfriend," House said. "We're just. . . friends."

Harry looked genuinely stunned by this development.

"Please tell me you're planning on hitting that," he said.

House rubbed his chin.

"Inconclusive," he said.

#####

"Ask me what I have in my back pocket," Wilson said, sliding into the seat across from House.

"Your ass?"

Wilson frowned.

"No. Two tickets for tonight's Monster Truck Rally at the civic center. Boom."

House grabbed the tickets, to confirm that they were real, as Wilson smiled at him, proudly.

"Whoa," House said, impressed. Then he remembered something. "Shit. I can't go."

"You _can't go_?"

"No. . .I already have plans."

"You're joking. This is The Destroyer vs. Colossus we're talking about here."

House sighed. "No can do," he said.

"Wait," Wilson said suspiciously. "What kind of plans?"

"I'm, uh, going to a concert."

"A jazz concert?"

"No," House said. "It's a . . ." And then he mumbled something unintelligible.

"A what?" Wilson said.

"A baroque music concert," he said, mortified.

"Holy shit," Wilson said. "You've got a date."

"Not exactly."

Just at that moment, Cuddy came strutting through the cafeteria, having grabbed a salad to bring back to her desk.

"See you at 7?" she said to House as she passed by.

"Can't wait," he said, with a slightly frozen smile. He watched her walk away. When he looked back at the table, Wilson was staring at him, his mouth hanging open.

"You're going on a date WITH CUDDY?"

"Not a date-date," House said, lowering his voice. "We're just going as. . .friends."

Wilson started to laugh, somewhat derisively.

"First of all, there's no way you are voluntarily going to a baroque music concert. And second of all, how many times have you told me that a man and woman cannot be friends?"

"Cuddy and I are the exception that proves the rule," House said, unconvincingly.

Wilson folded his arms.

"Uh huh," he said.

The two men contemplated each other.

Finally, House put his head in his hands.

"It's driving me crazy, Wilson. We've been to the Farmer's Market. The museum. And the movies—twice. But all I want to do is see her naked."

Wilson laughed.

"So do something about it," he said.

"Like what?"

"I know you're a bit out of practice, but when a man likes a woman he generally. . ."

"I don't need an anatomy lesson, Wilson. I just. . .what if she doesn't feel the same way?"

"Come on House. Everyone in this hospital knows she has the hots for you. _You_ used to know she has the hots for you."

"Things are different now. We're trying the friend route."

"Why on earth would you want to be friends with Cuddy?" Wilson said, cocking his head a bit. "What's your angle?"

House scratched his chin.

"No angle . .I'm just. . .We're just. . ."

"You actually like her!" Wilson interjected.

"Keep your voice down," House said.

"You want to see her naked. _And_ you like her company. You know what that says to me? You want Cuddy to be your girlfriend."

"Shut up, Wilson."

######

After the concert, he and Cuddy went back to his place for a drink.

They were sitting side by side on the couch.

House had opened a bottle of red.

Cuddy had kicked off her heels and her legs were folded underneath her.

"Admit it, it wasn't as bad as you thought," she said. "I actually saw you close your eyes in reverie at one point."

"That was me drifting asleep," he said.

"Liar!"

"Okay, maybe that Bach guy doesn't suck so bad."

"Big of you to admit that one of the towering geniuses of all time doesn't suck," she said.

"But next time, _I_ pick the music."

"Deal," she said, raising her glass. And, as they clinked glasses, House accidentally (on purpose) spilled his wine all over her.

"Shit!" she said, jumping up.

"Sorry," he said, sheepishly.

It was a direct hit. The wine had managed to get all over her (white) blouse and on her pants. Some had even gotten in her hair.

"Oh no! Your couch," she said.

The fact that she was more worried about his couch than her own blouse was one of the many reasons he adored her.

"A lot worse has spilled on it," he said.

"Gross," she said.

"Uh, not that," he said, quickly.

She looked down at her outfit in dismay.

"Can I borrow my backup outfit?" she said. Then she grabbed a strand of her sticky hair and smelled it.

"And maybe take another quick shower?"

"The lengths you will go to use my shower, Cuddy," he said.

"You spilled wine on me!" she protested.

"Your hand drunkenly shook," he said.

"Did not!"

"Revisionist history," he said. "But go right ahead, you wino."

She laughed.

"I'm making a habit of this. Maybe I should just keep a change of clothing at your place," she said.

"I'd like that," he said.

"Me too," she said.

And they looked at each other.

There was a pause and then Cuddy gave a girlish little laugh.

"Back in a jiff," she said.

She went to the bathroom, closed the door. He could hear the water begin to run.

He watched the door for a while. He imagined her rubbing her naked body with soap. He imagined himself rubbing her naked body with soap.

Finally he said out loud, "Fuck it."

And he stepped toward the bathroom.

Cuddy had her eyes closed and her head under the water, and when the shower curtain opened, she gasped a bit.

House was standing there, completely undressed. She hadn't even heard him come in.

She hadn't seem him naked since med school. He still had an athlete's body, despite the infarction. Ropy arm muscles, a broad back, a lean torso. The scar on his leg was ugly, horrific actually, but who could even look at his leg? He had always had the most marvelous cock.

She gulped.

"What are you doing House?" she said.

His eyes had been hungrily exploring her body, just as hers had been exploring his. He was fully hard now—offering himself to her.

"I've come to wash your back," he said softly.

Before she could protest, he firmly took her shoulders, maneuvered her around and grabbed his bottle of soap. He squirted some soap into his palm and began to slowly massage her back with it. She could feel his erection against her leg. She felt weak in the knees.

His hands moved from her back to her shoulders and then slowly found her breasts. She shuddered a bit when he touched them. She could hear him breathing over the rush of the water. He swirled the soap in a circular motion, until her breasts were sudsy. But then he forgot that he was supposed to be washing her and his thumbs began playing with her nipples and then his hands migrated down her torso, to her hips and between her legs. She turned, not able to wait anymore, pressed herself against him, found his mouth—his lips, his tongue—and he was stroking her ass and they were wedged against the shower wall and they were both sighing and moaning in unison, and then his mouth moved fervently to her neck, and he was licking the soap off her breasts, and he grabbed her thigh to steady her and she realized he was about to enter her.

"Your leg?" she said, so turned on that she barely cared.

"Shhhh," he said.

And he was inside her.

#####

Afterwards, he held her close, his face buried in her neck as the water continued to rain down on them.

"You're my bestest friend ever," he joked, idly kissing the hollow of her neck.

"Mine too," she said, her hands resting on his hips.

"I have a confession to make," he said. "I spilled that wine on you on purpose."

"I know you did."

"Sorry," he said.

"I'm not," she said. She gave him a light kiss on the mouth. (They were in that post-coital phase where they still couldn't quite get over the wonder of each other's bodies.)

"I have a confession, too," she said.

"Oh yeah?"

"I kind of wanted you to join in me in the shower the _last _time I took one here."

"You're kidding!" House said. "You mean I missed a Monster Truck Rally for nothing?"

THE END


End file.
